God of the Balval Churi
God of the Balval Churi is an encounter in Muri Mortuorum. Enemies *Putrid Zombie (1235 Gold, 152 XP, 95 Energy, 7 HP) * Wraith (1235 Gold, 152 XP, 95 Energy, 7 HP) Transcript Introduction Rina's people had many beliefs that outsiders dubbed superstitions and looked upon with scorn. In truth, she herself suspected many of their little daily rituals and habits were the result of half-understood traditions cobbled together and garbled over the passing generations. But there was one area of lore where neither she nor any of the other Balval Churi gypsies would have permitted a sliver of doubt or dared make willful misstep: wraiths. Outsiders sneered when gypsies buried iron horseshoes above corpses, to prevent them from rising up as ghosts and haunting the living, or enacted sundry other rites for the same purpose. Yet to her people the penalty for neglecting such things was misery or even death. The clan's stories were filled with unfortunate men and women who had returned from the grave as wraiths, or else been hounded to their own graves by those same specters. Thus they took great pains to ward against either fate. Markgrafin Gretchen had understood their fear of the creatures. And whilst her zombies had roamed the wood the gypsies once called home, she'd kept her wraiths well away out of deference to the sensibilities of even such lowly minions and tenants as they'd surely been to the ageless aristocrat. Thus Rina had never laid eyes on one of those ghostly beings. Until that moment. The soldiers were battling zombies around her, locked in combat with the walking corpses -- hewing heads from necks, crushing skulls, hacking them limb from limb. She alone saw the apparition that perched atop the wall, gazing down upon her with smoldering eyes. The blood seemed to freeze in her veins. Her heart paused in mid-beat, then hammered at her ribs as though it would soon burst and render her a fresh corpse among the rotten. Blackness danced at the edges of her vision, compressing her sight into a narrow channel -- until the rest of the world fell into darkness, and there was only the specter. It flitted down from the wall like a creeping shadow, its chill-blue wings slicing at the air. Rina screamed. Conclusion The wraith glided towards her, its phantom hand outstretched -- ready to grasp her throat. Perhaps even her soul. She drew away, shuffled backwards with rapid, clumsy steps. The ghostly face filled her eyes, the musty, putrid odor of the tomb her nose. In her ears something clacked and clattered. A distant shred of understanding told her that skeletal arms were reaching out behind her, ready to grab her when she stepped back into their embrace. A soldier's blade plunged through the wraith. It passed in and out of its body, leaving only a faint ripple amid the shadowy blackness. In the gloom, beneath clouds that hid the sun like the ceiling of a crypt, most of the thing's body was intangible. Doom glided towards the gypsy. She did the only thing she could, the last refuge of the scoundrel and the frightened girl alike: she prayed. "Brough, friend of the Balval Churi..." The words tumbled from her lips in a near unintelligible stream, an invocation to the gypsy clan's patron god. "He with whom we share what we take, what we steal, what we're given..." Bony hands snatched at the air behind her. A ghostly one drifted towards her face, as silent as death itself. "...help me!" Among the clan's superstitions, many concerned wraiths. Many others concerned Brough the Trickster. They said he sometimes ignored prayers, sometimes answered them. And that when he answered, there was always a price to be paid later -- one twist of fate to balance another. All this theology swam in Rina's mind, a swirling mess of fear and knowledge. Then the clouds parted. A brilliant shaft of sunlight descended from the heavens and flooded the battle with its golden glow. The wraith's body hardened. Its ghostly frame and garb became solid -- bone and fabric, no different from a skeleton's save for the ice-blue wings that now extend inelegantly on either side of its gaunt frame. Rina lunged. The dagger which had hung powerless in her hand darted at its newly corporeal form. Steel met bone. A once-phantasmal rib cracked beneath the blade. The wraith hissed. Now it was the creature's turn to retreat. It scurried backwards, its footfalls sinking into the soft grass, glaring at the flashing dagger that sought to end its undead existence. Then it whirled around in a billowing cloud of black robe. The gypsy pressed the attack, both her daggers stabbing and slashing at its wings. Chunks of brittle blueness broke away and rained down on the grass -- eliciting howls of agony from a creature to whom pain had been but a near-forgotten memory. The wraith sprang into the air, escaping the gypsy's blades. It clambered on top of the wall, drawing itself onto the ledge of bones with a hiss that was almost a groan. Then it dropped out of sight on the opposite side. Rina exhaled. Brough had answered her prayer. She wondered what sport the god would make of her in return. Category: Muri Mortuorum